


One Good Birthday

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Dates, First Kiss, Fix-It, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Has Birthday Trauma, Season/Series 15, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-22 21:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23967340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: This year, nothing bad happens on Sam's birthday. Sam's on edge, waiting for that shoe to drop. Dean tries to give him one good birthday, and they both realize something along the way.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 34
Kudos: 194





	One Good Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to write something for Sam's first non-finale trauma-inducing birthday!
> 
> Enjoy!

The end of the world had, quite literally, been postponed.

For months, they’d been chasing their tails, saying hello and goodbye to various loved ones and dealing with Chuck’s unique brand of mockery. They knew his endgame, they knew his power--but they weren’t completely defenseless, learning new things and gaining allies every day.

Sam lost sleep. Every day, they had to rescue some important object or defend themselves against Chuck. He continued having violent nightmares that all ended with him and Dean being torn away from one another in some tragic way.

They were fighting to prevent the one thing Sam was actually terrified of.

Oh, and the end of the world.

So Sam worked out at night, only passing out because his body forced him to. He woke up early, eating a green breakfast and diving into research. He never did well feeling cooped up for long periods of time, so he searched for some new lead like he had a thesis due soon that he hadn’t even started.

He monitored the usual outlets and algorithms, waiting for hunts to pop to distract them and give them a few wins every once in a while. For months, that was the story of their lives.

And then one day, it just… stopped.

The news began talking about the coronavirus, which became more specifically referred to as COVID 19 as the situation got worse worldwide. States enacted lockdowns, stay-at-home orders, social distancing, and masks were required in public.

A magic hidden bunker with rations and a shitty herb garden Sam had started for his witchcrafting needs was far from the worst place to be.

They had a dilemma. Of course they didn’t want to get sick or spread it, but they still had a job to do.

Until they didn’t.

Along with regular activity going quiet for the time being, supernatural activity ceased, too.

They didn’t get any notifications about hunts. No strange stories about old New England mansions. No demon deals, no nothing. There was even radio silence from their friends, but repeated, frantic text messages were replied to with assuages that everyone was fine.

Chuck made no appearances. The nightmares stopped.

There was just nothing.

It was probably the most popular daydream Sam had ever had, and Sam daydreamed a lot when things got bad: that things could just stand still for a moment, that he could feel grateful for the commercial break and safety, that he could just be.

And now that it was happening, it was fucking terrible.

There was no relaxation, no hot tubs, video games, and potato chips. Sam checked and rechecked and sextuple-checked all of his emails, news sources, and spells. He found new books to pore through for any details on godly destruction. He tried to find out if this silence was a precursor to something worse. He took meticulous notes and sorted them. He polished weapons.

He waited.

This would not last forever. And if he got too comfortable, he’d be caught with more than just his pants down. It would be a sure fire way to watch the love of his life die.

And yes, he’d pretty much admitted that to himself. It was stupid to deny it in the eleventh hour of the eleventh hour.

Whatever happened this time, whatever the outcome was, it would mark a permanent change for this planet. For people and monsters everywhere. And Sam wanted to fight for a better future, but he also wanted to rest.

Just not. Like this.

He was one anxiety-provoking news story from crawling up the walls and babbling like a baby.

Dean, by contrast, was doing much better. He took quarantine in stride, refusing to wear actual pants ever again. He made all sorts of awful, garbage meals that stunk up the kitchen. Besides those tidbits, Sam wasn’t actually quite sure what Dean did with all his time. He didn’t think he wanted to ask.

The days ticked by and the tension in Sam’s shoulders grew tighter. Once May came, he was on full alert mode and had three types of weapons on him at all times. He walked the bunker just in case. And a second time to be sure.

Dean caught him as he came back from making sure the garage exit was still magically fortified. “Hey,” Dean said with a signature cheeky smile. He held up a taco. “Taco?”

Sam stared at him for a moment. It took his brain a few beats to click back into “regular human” mode so he could interact with Dean without freaking him out. He didn’t have much of an appetite, but he hadn’t eaten all day. “Sure.”

He followed Dean to the kitchen, where a veggie taco was promptly foisted into his hand. He handled it carefully, like a baby taco, and took bites while leaning over the sink. Plates were too much of a liability. So were tables. He had to stay on his feet.

It was pretty good, but he ate it quickly in little rabbit bites, zoning out and thinking of other possible ways to re-fortify the bunker magically and find ways to create a more advanced demonic (and godly and angelic) alarm system. Maybe Sam could magically connect with the bunker somehow. Wouldn’t they be stronger together?

“Earth to Sam…” Dean was waving a hand in his face, and he was trying to sound like a dick but Sam read the concern from his tone loud and clear.

Sam blinked. He wiped taco debris off his hand and washed them in the sink. He turned back to Dean. “Sorry, what?”

Dean side-eyed him. “I asked you, like, twenty frickin’ questions. Where do you want me to start?”

“At the first one?”

Dean rolled his eyes. He made a second taco and shoved it into his mouth. He ate while speaking and Sam bit his cheek to stop himself from calling Dean out on it.

“I’ve texted you about movie night like six times this week, dude,” Dean said, voice muffled and squished by sour cream and guacamole. “You gotta look at your phone.”

Dean was right. Dean was completely right. Sam’s phone was also an information and communication system that was vital to him responding to any emergencies in a timely and practical manner. His cheeks burned. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Dean said, giving him a weird look. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Uh huh. How you takin’ quarantine?”

Sam shifted, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking anywhere except at Dean. He shrugged. “It’s… uhh, it’s not great, but I’ve been keeping busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Staying prepared.”

Dean finished his taco. “For what? Chuck?”

“Among other things, yes.”

Dean snorted. “Dude, we’ve done all we can. Don’t you want to enjoy this? It’s your birthday! I can’t believe I had to be the first one to mention it!”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Sam hissed.

Dean’s weird look seemed to stretch wider across his face. He snorted and wiped at his mouth with a napkin. “Um, what, Sammy?”

Sam’s arms flailed in a vague but clearly angry gesture. “It’s my birthday,” he said, “so we need to be prepared for whatever’s going to happen.”

“Whatever’s going to happen?” Dean repeated. “I already told you, nothing’s going to happen.”

Sam wasn’t going to convince Dean. He shook his head. He glanced at the clock. It was time to check his wards. “It’s fine,” he said. “Thanks for the taco.”

Sam got up and moved away from Dean, intent on turning the corner in the hallway and sprinting the moment he was out of Dean’s field of view. Every moment he was late in checking the wards was another moment something catastrophic could happen.

Before he could get very far, though, fingers linked tightly around his wrist and yanked back, like he was a stubborn fish on a hook. He stumbled and whirled around to face Dean’s Stern Older Brother Face.

“Sammy,” Dean said, “out with it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam grumbled. “I’ve got to check the wards. If I’m late--”

“Bad things don’t happen because it’s your birthday,” Dean said.

When he phrased it like that, it made it sound so stupid, so irrational. Sam’s face reddened. He pulled on his captive arm. “Have I been wrong so far?”

“It’s bad luck,” Dean laughed. “C’mon, I can show you.”

Sam was shaking his head before Dean even finished speaking. “Please don’t,” he said.

“Nuh-uh.” Once Dean fixated on something, he latched onto it so hard you could never pry him off. “Now I gotta. Them’s the rules.”

“Them’s aren’t the rules,” Sam huffed under his breath, fully aware of how petulant he was being.

Dean made a stupid face at him. He released Sam. “Go do your wards or whatever if it makes you feel better.” He jammed a finger in Sam’s face. “But tonight you are mine. Period.”

Dean walked away, leaving Sam to awkwardly wait until Dean was gone before he could also dramatically walk away. It didn’t have the same effect with nobody watching.

Sam did check his wards, recasting some of them just to be sure. He hoped enough time had passed that Dean had gotten distracted by porn or a slasher flick or something. He snuck around the bunker, listening for signs of life before he searched his catalog for books.

He grabbed one new one to add to his current retinue and found a quiet table hidden in the stacks to curl up in with his notebook. He flipped open the dog-eared, worn cover and picked up where he left off. He’d been cross-referencing stories about deaths of gods and looking for something in common or some technique that might be viable.

He immersed himself in his work, losing track of time. It felt like he’d only been there for a few seconds when something touched his shoulder.

He jumped, sputtering in panic. He spun on his heel and put a butterfly knife to the throat of his attacker.

Dean looked at him with huge eyes. “Jesus, Sam!”

Sam’s heart was still pounding, his body on red alert. He tucked the knife back into his waistband. “Sorry, sorry.”

“You can’t live life like that,” Dean said, “always on edge. Trust me, I know.”

Sam didn’t have anything to say to that.

Dean brightened. He nodded back toward the way he’d come. “I have something that’ll help.”

He walked off, and Sam had no choice but to follow.

With Dean’s eyes no longer on him, Sam let out a shuddery breath, twisting his hands together.

Dean led him to the broken greenhouse where Sam had tried to grow some plants. It looked a little more presentable, with glass shards and dirt swept away and a tarp thrown over the hole in the ceiling. Sam looked up toward the windows with a start. It was pitch black outside.

He tore his eyes back to the greenhouse. Dean had strung up some Christmas lights, and had put a folding table and set of chairs in an open space in the center of it all. On the table were more tacos.

Sam gave him a look. “Sorry we don’t have more choices,” Dean said. “Quarantine.”

Sam nodded. Dean had tried, had made an effort to do something Sam would appreciate. And it did look nice in here. The slight breeze was comforting, letting him take deeper breaths. “It’s nice. Thank you.”

“I do have one more thing,” Dean said. “Or, actually two. Here.”

Dean hopped over to the table. He pulled out a deck of cards and waved them at Sam like a paper fan. “Eh?” Next, he picked up a crock pot that had been hidden behind a clay flower pot. He tilted it so Sam could see the marshmallow hot dog mac and cheese insides. “Eh?”

Sam’s face broke into a grin. He couldn’t help it. “That’s very nice.”

Dean nodded in a way that oozed self-satisfaction. “Alright, now get over here, you big oaf.”

The least Sam could do was give Dean his moment. He could stay up later tonight reading to accommodate for the break.

He sat across from Dean. He wasn’t in the mood for food but he ate some of the macaroni to make Dean smile. Dean snacked on everything, taking random bits of things like lettuce and cheese and popping them in his mouth.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Dean cleared his throat. Sam looked up. “Uh, sorry about your birthdays,” Dean said. “I’d be pretty freaked out too if you died on my birthday every year.”

Sam’s throat was full. He nodded so he could duck his head and avoid Dean’s sympathetic gaze. “Yeah. Thanks.”

With greasy fingers, Dean dealt out the bent cards. They played go fish and a variety of other simple games. Sam was surprised when he only won a few. He’d been certain Dean would find a way to get a luck-based game to err in Sam’s favor.

It was only a matter of time before Dean brought poker up. Sam shook his head. “We don’t have chips. Or money.”

“We’ll use these,” Dean said. He plucked a little nettle off a weed growing up against the table leg and tossed it onto the center of the table. It landed dangerously close to the taco meat bowl.

Sam gave him a look. “What are we playing for?”

“The opportunities are endless,” Dean said, hamming it up way too hard, like a ‘50s car salesman. “Think about it, Sam. Laundry for a month? Supply run? Massages? Picking the TV channel?”

Sam thought on it. “Bathroom cleaning,” he said. “Movie picking. Free time activity choosing.”

Dean pulled a stinky diaper face. “That’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

Instead of yelling at Dean for not cleaning up his piss on the toilet seat, Sam shrugged. “I’m in or I’m out,” he said. “Your choice.”

Dean stared at him for several beats, and, without breaking eye contact, dealt the cards.

Sam won their first game, dooming Dean to bathroom duty for a month, and Dean acted like Sam had given him a terminal diagnosis. For the second game, Dean somehow convinced Sam to participate in strip poker, despite no alcohol being involved.

Sam felt weird and hot and self conscious, but also sort of giggly, too, like Dean had slipped him something. Dean fucking schooled him, hoarding a pile of little nettles, even though Sam played just the same as he did last round.

The flannel had to go first, then the belt, then the jeans, and socks. “My toes are cold,” Sam complained, curling them under the chair.

“Play better, skinny boy,” Dean said. “I fold.”

Sam took the challenge, and got Dean down to a shirt and boxers, too, until they were both shivering in the chilly greenhouse like idiots, idly eating lettuce and throwing out half-baked insults.

Dean got back at Sam. Sam sat in his underwear, staring at Dean’s cards. “C’mon, you won,” Sam said. “Isn’t this excessive?”

“Fair’s fair.”

Sam blushed. “I just don’t see why you wouldn’t jump at any opportunity to save you from seeing the horror that is my bare ass.”

It was Dean’s turn to go pink. “It’s not a horror.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You’re really going to do this? On my birthday?”

Dean’s smile went huge. “It’s your birthday suit, man. You have to.”

Sam didn’t want to laugh at that. He so didn’t want to. Egging Dean on was always a bad idea.

But he couldn’t control it. One snort came out, like he’d farted out his nose, and then he was laughing for real, and Dean’s pleased expression made him want to shout, but somehow, it came out as giggles.

Sam wasn’t going to let Dean control everything, though. While still laughing, while Dean was caught off guard, Sam tugged his boxer briefs off and let them fall to his ankles. He stepped out of them.

“There,” he said, standing before a silent Dean, whose grin was no longer so big, “can we do something else now?”

“Uhhh… yeah,” Dean said, standing up and stretching. “Yes. Definitely.”

Sam squinted at Dean. “This is what you wanted,” he said, gesturing at himself. “Having second thoughts?”

“You said, ‘can we do something else now,’” Dean said, tilting his chin up and eying Sam openly. “Well, I know what I wanna do now.”

“What?”

“Well,” Dean repeated, with some more umph. “I know… what I wanna do now.”

Sam blinked hard. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Birthday events, part two!” Dean said, pushing past Sam. “Put your pants back on and follow me.”

He ran out of the greenhouse.

Sam felt weird. He shook his head and smiled to himself and pulled his clothes back on. He gathered up Dean’s and dropped them off in Dean’s room. He cleaned up the greenhouse--he wasn’t about to leave food out where rats or bugs could get it.

By the time he was done, Dean was waiting in the main study room, watching Sam attend to his tasks. He had PJs on now.

Sam headed over to him and Dean led him down the hall in complete silence. He stopped at the door to the media room/living room/whatever and gestured at Sam to head in.

Sam did as requested. Inside, the couch was filled with blankets, the coffee table littered with overly sweet snacks and candies, and Dean had somehow managed to find a shop-grade coffee machine that could create lattes. He’d put it on the sideboard.

Dean rushed over to it. “Watch this.”

Sam watched as Dean made a vanilla latte with extra whip. He handed it to Sam with flair, bowing low.

Sam took a sip. His eyebrows shot up. “Damn,” he said. “Where’d you get your beans?”

Dean waggled his eyebrows. “Same as you. From my daddy.”

Sam snorted, coffee coming out his nose. “Oh, god. That’s terrible.”

“Yeah, yeah. Wanna pick the movie?”

Sam did. He picked Star Trek IV. He’d been craving some ‘80s San Francisco space shenanigans, and he’d never say no to watching Leonard Nimoy. Dean definitely wasn’t complaining, either, and soon enough, they were both absorbed in the movie, Sam popping sour patch kids like they were regular patch kids, and Dean practically flossing with popcorn kernels.

As the movie went on, Sam remembered more of it, mumbling lines under his breath and fighting off yawns. Dean stretched, sighing and throwing his arm around Sam. Sam blinked owlishly, listing into Dean’s arms. His head fell onto Dean’s shoulder, his eyelids getting heavy.

Sam faded in and out during the rest of the movie, and at some point, a blanket appeared on his lap. Once the credits rolled, though, the silence poked at Sam’s brain, and he sat up, yawning.

Dean looked over at him with a soft smile. “Have a good time?”

Sam took a moment to reflect before answering. He’d forgotten all about his research, but he didn’t feel horrible about it. He checked the time on his watch. It was past midnight, meaning his birthday was over and nothing disastrous had happened.

He felt safe and comfortable. For once.

And it was all thanks to Dean.

As he thought, his smile bloomed over his face like the first daffodils of spring. He nodded, feeling oddly shy. “I really did. Thank you.”

“You don’t gotta thank me,” Dean said, his voice rough. He gestured at Sam. “This is my reward.”

Sam’s heart went charmin ultra soft at that. He handed Dean his empty bowl. “Can my reward be extra sour patch kids?”

Dean snorted at that, smiling even wider. “Sure thing, buddy.”

What happened next was weird.

Not supernaturally weird, not alarming, just… odd.

Dean unwrapped his arm from around Sam, pet Sam’s hair, and kissed him lightly on the mouth before getting up and whistling like it was just a regular evening.

Sam watched Dean shut off the TV and the coffee machine and grab the bowls from the table. After a full minute, Sam stood up and folded the blanket, swiping crumbs off the table and dumping them into the trash.

Dean left and Sam didn’t think he was supposed to follow. He walked around the bunker as if in a trance.

Part of him felt like they’d kissed before. But they hadn’t. Had they?

But hadn’t they?

Sam marked his spot in his book and took some final notes before turning off the light in the library. He could pick it up tomorrow, and he knew he would, but some of the urgency was gone. He’d been hanging off the edge of a cliff for so long that sitting in a plushy chair was foreign.

Before long, he’d spent enough time dicking around. He puffed out his chest and walked to Dean’s room. The door was open. He knocked on it anyway.

Dean looked up. He was sitting on the bed reading a book by soft lamplight. His hair looked fuzzy and his face lined and worn like a child’s favorite toy.

“Mind if I stay here tonight?” Sam asked, almost unable to say it, dangerously close to teetering back into whatever they had before tonight. Or maybe it had always been like this.

Dean nodded like it was nothing.

“Okay,” Sam said. “Lemme go get my toothbrush.”

It wasn’t long before he was in the bed beside Dean in his pajamas, and the fatigue was setting in for real now. He hadn’t slept properly in months, years, his whole life. Dean closed his book, shut off the light, and grabbed Sam. “Sammy.”

Sam went easy, curling into Dean’s arms like he was fourteen again. Dean sighed like something had finally clicked into place after all these years.

Sam tilted his head up and kissed Dean. Dean kissed back. Sam buried his face in Dean’s chest. Was this real? This comfort, this security, this feeling in his chest? The silence of his thoughts, the certainty of his heart?

Sam decided, against a fearful part of himself, that it had to be. He let his eyes fall closed and his thoughts get jumbled. Dean’s smell was a soporific if Sam had ever known one.

Sam didn’t know what the future held. He was realistic, pragmatic. And had a long history of scars and heartbreaks and fuck ups.

But this? This moment was actual heaven, and Sam knew that he and Dean would fight to keep this.

As long as they stood together, they’d be okay.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! This was very therapeutic.


End file.
